


Spectrum of Mourning at the Funeral of a Solitary Man

by TheBookshelfDweller



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mysterious Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBookshelfDweller/pseuds/TheBookshelfDweller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I attended your funeral, you know. They didn't know I was there [...] Interesting though, you are the first solitary man I met who had a mourning party. [...] I can tell you how each of them mourned you." Because each kind of love produces its own kind of grief, a long-ignored voice tells the story of five mourners of Sherlock Holmes, a man who in the end, was all but solitary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spectrum of Mourning at the Funeral of a Solitary Man

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you to everyone who left Kudos/ bookmark/ comments on my previous stories, it means a lot :)
> 
> Secondly, just a quick note - here is a quote from John Donne's poem "No man is an island", which pertains to a reference in the story, just to make the reference clear.
> 
> "No man is an island entire of itself; every man /is a piece of the continent, a part of the main" – John Donne
> 
> Disclaimer: Once again, all belongings to their rightful owners, and to me the pleasure of your opinions if you decide to express them :)
> 
> Enjoy your reading!

* * *

I attended your funeral, you know. They didn’t know I was there, and I don’t think they would have counted me as a guest if they did. Oh, I’m not Death, if that’s what you were thinking (although I doubt you were, you don’t strike me as the type to personify a natural occurrence or a bodily process). No, I’m not nearly as ominous as Death. I’m also not Providence or a ghost of a soul departed long ago – no, nothing so ethereal. In fact, it doesn’t really matter _what_ or _who_ I am. I could have easily been just a passer-by, or that crow pecking at the gravel pathway. Maybe I was the silence that settled among the members of the solemn party of five, who gathered around the grave of a solitary man.  
Interesting though, you are the first solitary man I met who had a mourning party. It is a bit contrary, don’t you think? A solitary man with a family to mourn him? The lonely ones I usually see really are solitary, lone – their funerals are attended only by the officials needed to set the matter to rest. Set _them_ to rest, (a terrible pun, I know, that eye-roll of yours is completely warranted). Well, back to my point, it _is_ a paradox to see so many forlorn faces assembled around the resting place (ha! You, resting! I don’t think you have ever rested in your life, so that’s an irony of immense proportions right there) of a man who came the closest to becoming an island (were you deliberately set out to prove John Donne wrong on that one, or was it just a lucky coincidence?). Well, perhaps I should change my choice of words then – no solitary, but _singular_? Yes, singular, as in unique. You definitely are _that_. But did you know solitary and singular can be used as synonyms meaning “alone”? (Of course, you did) I guess it is logical – if you are one of the kind, then you are by definition _alone_ in whatever category you fall in, one that is made up solely of you. So, you are bound by semantics to be alone, the only specimen – but are you bound to be lonely? Or is that a choice you made for yourself?

You see, I don’t think you are a solitary man at all. Not when it all comes down to it, at least. Not in the ways that matter. You are not entitled to the word, not with all of the people who mourned you.  

I could have been the silence that curled around those people, or I could have been the first fistful of dirt that fell on your empty coffin. Maybe I was the hand that threw it. As I said, it really doesn’t matter _who_ or _what_ I am. All that matters is that I was there and I had a chance to observe others that were there.  

What I observed was something even you would have missed (yes, I expected that scowl, I didn’t really expect you to believe that, your belief in your own omniscience is annoyingly unwavering). Well, maybe you wouldn’t have missed it completely, but the nuance of it would certainly be lost on you. You would see it all as a manifestation of a uniform emotion. You would observe the mourning, but that would be the extent of your attention. Identification, no further dwelling on differentiation. You would see and even observe, but would you _understand_? More importantly, would you _feel_?

So, while I might not be able to tell you the exact day the apricots- that- later-became-the- jam -that was –smeared- on -toast –by- the- third- mourner- from –the- right were picked, just from the smudge in the corner of his lip (yes, I am mocking you, nicely detected), I can tell you something else. Something much more important than the jam and the apricots.

I can tell you how each of them mourned you.

-

Have you figured out who I am, yet?

-

One mourned you like a mother mourns a son. All of her emotions were now tainted by grief. Anger at your endless shenanigans (she found them endearing really, in the end she always did) – now, anger + grief; silent pride at seeing you praised by the papers – now, pride+ grief+ anger at the papers; affection felt for your oh-so-inappropriate excitement that could only be elicited by an especially juicy murder – now, affection + grief + longing to hear that manic voice of yours again, even if impertinent.  Love, then and now, but now - love (so much love) + grief (such terrible grief). She mourned your lost future. She forgave you immediately, if there was anything to be forgiven. Hers was the grief of a parent burying a mischievous child.

-

Have you put a name to my face? Or do you need more time?

-

Two mourned you the way an older brother would a younger sibling. One who admired you, despite your vices and lack of tact, and one who worried for you, constantly. The former mourned your death, while the latter, the one aware of the fabricated nature of your demise and the fictitiousness of the commemoration taking place, mourned your life...or rather, what has become of it.  
They need you for your talents, but the truth is that you need them, too. Not that you would ever admit it. They both provide you with your real drug of choice – cases, the thrill, and the means necessary for you to be able to do what you do best, that which keeps you sane – while at the same time they act as your keepers, working in tandem to keep you from your other drug of choice. That one is so much more boring, wouldn’t you agree? Nothing brilliant about hypodermic needles, really. They need you, but they love you, too, and not just because you are indispensible for case-closing rates and national security. If it were just that, neither would invest so much of their energy in preserving you.  
Theirs was an affection of the same sort (well, maybe one was slightly less polluted by childhood feuds and petty resentments than the other, but that’s beside the point), one dictated by bloodlines, the other by IV lines. Blood cells and saline. The origin of the sentiment of both (and thus their grief) was coursing through your bloodstream. A birth (yours) and a near-fatal overdose (again yours). Life-(near) death – life. You really don’t make it easy for people to love you, do you?

-

Care to tell me who I am? No? Do you need clues?

-

One mourned you like a friend mourns another, and just a little bit like an admirer grieves over her unrequited fancy. Mostly, she mourned you the way a caring person mourns one in pain, one who is sad.  She was always the better friend out of the two of you, (as if that is a hard feat to accomplish). Do keep that in mind, will you?  
She also mourned someone living, with the guilt of a person keeping secrets, like a doctor with a cure forced to stand over a patient in agony and keep her hands to herself. I think she mourned him even more than she did you.  
She is much braver than anyone gives her credit for.

-

Oh, surely you have worked it out by now. Who am I?

-

One mourned you like...well, there isn’t a comparison that could do justice to such grief. What analogy is there to depict properly such sorrow? It is not bereavement of the common variety. To say he mourned you like an insomniac mourns the loss of sleep – loss of something vital, essential – would perhaps suffice only partly.  
Was it despair alike to that of a man stranded in constant darkness who was shown a glimpse of the world, only to be drawn back to his solitary confinement once more (you see, this is the proper use of the term _solitary_ )? Perhaps, but it is still an incomplete description.  
I could tell you that he mourned you like a soul-mate, like an alter ego, like a kindred spirit, like the best of friends, like a future possibility of more, like a “could have been” that now never will – and it would still be a deficient  account of the feeling that deserves a simile of its own. There is only one adequate portrayal of this sentiment, because he mourned you with the same intensity with which you would have mourned him (and yourself) have you lost him, instead (I mean, lost him to death rather than to this pretence).

He mourned you, and still does, the way John Watson mourns Sherlock Holmes.

-

So, have you got it? My ever-elusive identity? Of course you did. You knew from the start, didn’t you?

I’m not the passer-by, nor the crow. I’m not the silence, nor the dirt, nor the hand.

I am you. (I thought for a moment that I might have you fooled, seeing as at times I sound so much more like _him_ , like John, than I do like you. I wonder why?)

I’m your proverbial heart, mocking your non-proverbial brain because, for its entire prowess in the science of deduction, it will always fall short of me in the art of feeling, and truly _understanding_. You know what they say – the only way to truly understand something is to feel it on your own skin. _Feel_ it, not _know_ it or _deduce_ it _._ I am your only liability, your despised point of frailty.

I was there because you were there, too. We hid together behind that pine tree, far away enough to be safely covert, yet close enough to observe. You ignored me then. You will try to do it again now. And again, and again, and again. You have tried to give me up for so long, despite the knowledge that was available exclusively through me (how could you not see the shortcomings of giving up that insight? Stupid).  
 I was offended at first, but I think I understand you now. In fact, I might even comply with your reasoning. Once again, you might have been right, (please note the use of the word “might” – I’m still deciding on the matter). Either way, I understand your attempts now. I understand, because I felt the reasons for them on my own skin (and there, irony again, although it does actually serve to prove my point. It just happens to be proving you right at the same time. Mind-boggling, contradictory. Of course it is, look who I’m talking to, what did I expect, if not complicated...?).

Anyway, as I was saying, I understand you now. I told you there is some knowledge only I can provide you with. I wish I couldn’t provide you with this one, though. I wish I didn’t know this.

 I know how they mourn me, because I mourn them, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Have I kept you guessing? :)


End file.
